


Reconstruction

by nahco3



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-29
Updated: 2011-08-29
Packaged: 2017-10-23 05:37:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nahco3/pseuds/nahco3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The president of Valencia tells Silva they’re going to be selling him and David Villa. There is nothing Silva could say if he wanted to; no argument he could make against economic necessity. So he tells them yes, go right ahead, thanks for the heads up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reconstruction

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted to my lj.

In the last four years, he has won the Copa del Rey, the European championship. He has seen four managers sacked; he has watched the club bankrupt itself and the team fall apart and pull back together. He has fallen in love, he has fucked a married teammate. In less than a month, he will win the World Cup. He has never been more exhausted in his life.

David Silva is born on an island. It’s something he will never forget - he grows up with the horizon in view, he grows up poor, playing football on the beach, avoiding the tourists. A small town that smells like fish and salt and the wind. It’s too cramped to be paradise, nowhere to go but the mainland. When he moves to Valencia, he looks out of the window the entire flight over, the Atlantic glassy white in the sunlight. His mom is sitting next to him and he holds her hand. He looks young, so no one on the plane needs to know he’s not supposed to do things like that anymore.

In Valencia, his family lives in an apartment, cramped and loud. His mom leaves a window open, always, so she can smell the Mediterranean. His dad drives him home from practice every night, home to dinner with his family. They hold hands around the table, bow their heads and pray. His mom asks for God to look after their family, keep them healthy and happy. His dad asks for the strength for them to work hard, and for God to reward their efforts. His sisters ask for little girl things, different every night. Out loud, David asks God to help him be less shy. Silently, he asks to be a great footballer so that he can repay his family.

David has only lived away from the sea for one year - the miserable year he plays for Eibar; he has never lived away from his family.

His family goes to his grandparents’ house in the Canaries during the World Cup in 2006. He spends a lot of time at the beach, because the house is overflowing with family. His mom keeps trying to get him to call his friends from when he was younger - “they’d love to hear from you!” - but David doesn’t know what he’d say. All he thinks about is football, if he’ll get called back to Valencia, how to get his corner kicks to bend just so, how to build up his endurance. He spends his time by himself as much as possible, worrying and training. He watches Spain’s games, trying to imagine himself there, in Germany, losing like that. He can’t.

That morning, he’s walking down to the beach, kick a football in front of him. His mobile’s in his pocket; the volume turned all the way up, just in case.

Someone calls his name, and he turns. It takes him a minute to recognize the boy calling his name - Paulo? Pablo? - they played football together in the school yard.

“David, hey! I heard you were back,” the boy says. He’s wearing an old Spain jersey and shorts.

“Hi,” David says, quietly. “Yeah, we’re, my family, spending some time here. Before the season starts again.” He looks down at the ball, kicks it up to his knee and then taps it up so he can grab it to his chest. He looks up at the boy. Some of his friendliness seems to have dimmed, and David wonders what he said wrong.

“You playing for Valencia yet?” the boy asks.

David shakes his head, and the boy shrugs. “We’ll all come and watch you if it happens.” He looks at David, who gives him a weak smile. “I guess I better head to work,” the boys says, somewhat awkwardly. “See you around, I guess.”

“Yeah, for sure,” David says, not meaning a word of it. David starts off in the opposite direction, dropping the ball and kicking it ahead of him.

He’s barely gotten to the beach when his phone rings. He digs it out of his pocket and answers:

“David Silva speaking,” the way his mother taught him to.

“Silva?” the voice on the other end asks. “This is Quique Flores. I’m calling to let you we’ve decided not to loan you out this season.” He pauses. David’s mind goes blank. Flores clears his throat and continues, probably used to explaining things very simply to very simple footballers. “You’ll be playing for Valencia this year. We’re going to expect you at training in a month. Ok?”

“Yes, yes sir, that sounds great,” David says, words coming out of his mouth automatically. Flores keeps talking, though God only knows what he’s saying, and David just stands there, feet in the sand, grinning.

His dad drops him off at training the first morning, just the same as always. “Good luck,” he says, patting him on the shoulder. David smiles because his mouth is too dry to speak, and gets out of the car.

The locker room is loud. A trainer calls, “David!” and David turns his head, about to respond, and so does the man next to him. But David Albelda, across the room, is the one who answers. The man next to David shakes his head in annoyance, and David recognizes him suddenly, from tv highlight reels and newspapers, from the World Cup - David Villa

“You’re a David too?” he asks David, and David nods. “Yeah. Um, David Silva.” He holds out his right hand.

Villa laughs, but not cruelly. “David Villa. You can call me David though, Silva.” David blushes a little bit and laughs too, maybe a little nervously.

In South Africa, Silva sleeps badly. The first week he thinks it might be jet lag, but it lasts even after his body learns its new time zone. He does his best to hide it, pushing himself in practice, sneaking naps in the afternoons. His agent calls him at odd hours, telling him names of teams.

Silva thinks about the ocean surrounding his childhood home, endless and unhemmed. He thinks about Valencia’s slice of coastline, the dirty blue Mediterranean. He thinks about Barcelona, a different port on the same sea, the same gleaming sun. He tells Manchester City, yes, he wants to come play in their grey, land-locked city. They are thrilled.

He calls his parents next. His mother is worried - “you don’t speak English, David. Oh, David. Do you want us to come with you?”

“It won’t be a big deal to learn English, Mom,” he says. “And please, stay in Spain. I don’t want you to move just for me. Besides, isn’t it time I lived on my own?”

His mom maybe cries when he says that, “We pray for you, David,” she says, and puts his dad on.

“City is a good club,” his dad says. “I know you’ll make us proud.”

“Yeah,” Silva says, “I hope so.” He hangs up, and scrolls through his contacts. He calls David before he can convince himself not to.

David answers right away. “What?”

Silva looks around his empty hotel room. “I have something to tell you. Can you come to my room?”

Silva can picture David’s face - the way his eyes will flash, fast before he can lock them down. “Yeah, yeah, right away.” Silva hears a rustle, then David’s voice is muted - “my agent, apparently there’s some contract shit I still need to deal with, sorry.” Silva bites his lips and hangs up.

A minute later, there’s a knock on his door. Silva lets David in, shuts and locks the door behind him.

David reaches out and puts his hand on the nape of Silva’s neck, pulling him in for a kiss, his thumb drawing little circles on Silva’s skin.

David pulls back, but leaves his hand in place. He licks his lip, probably unconsciously, and Silva watches him. Silva can feel David’s hand shaking, so Silva reaches out, without meaning to, to grab hold of his other hand.

“I didn’t know we were still doing this,” David says, quietly. “I didn’t know you still wanted to.”

Silva briefly considers laughing. “Wanting to was never the problem,” Silva tells him. “But we aren’t.”

David’s eyes flick down to Silva’s hand gripping his wrist, and then up to Silva’s mouth. “Then what are we doing?”

“I’m going to Manchester City,” Silva tells him.

“Oh,” David says. “But I guess you didn’t expect to stay in Spain.” Silva shakes his head, and David lets out a long breath. He kisses Silva again. Silva pulls back.

“No,” Silva tells him. “Not now.” Not anymore, Silva thinks, even though he wants, wants, wants.

“After the Cup, then,” David tells him, asks him.

Silva lets go of David’s wrist and steps back. “In Valencia.”

“Fine, yes, yes,” David agrees, without thinking. Then he pauses. “Valencia?”

“I can help you pack,” Silva tells him, and kisses him one last time.

Once David’s gone, Silva lies on top of his bed and tries to reconstruct memories of England, of who he was before David. He tries to breathe.


End file.
